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What Is Here Poem

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What is Here

By Wayne Jackson 1950-1989

What is here can never be counted on
(The day slows down to a halt)
The grass fails
                  to be grass
              is pavement instead
and you can count the hairs on a dog's ass if you want to, I
           don't bother.
           There are as many there as there are there



Copyright © 1997 by Donald Wayne Jackson, All rights reserved


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